"Now, remember," he went on, after we had told our little tale of travel
by the fire, and Mrs. Maloney had asked for the fourth time exactly
where her tent was and whether the door faced east or south, "every one
takes their turn at cooking breakfast, and one of the men is always out
at sunrise to catch it first. Hubbard, I'll toss you which you do in the
morning and which I do!" He lost the toss. "Then I'll catch it," I said,
laughing at his discomfiture, for I knew he loathed stirring porridge.
"And mind you don't burn it as you did every blessed time last year on
the Volga," I added by way of reminder.

Mrs. Maloney's fifth interruption about the door of her tent, and her
further pointed observation that it was past nine o'clock, set us
lighting lanterns and putting the fire out for safety.

But before we separated for the night the clergyman had a time-honoured
little ritual of his own to go through that no one had the heart to deny
him. He always did this. It was a relic of his pulpit habits. He glanced
briefly from one to the other of us, his face grave and earnest, his
hands lifted to the stars and his eyes all closed and puckered up
beneath a momentary frown. Then he offered up a short, almost inaudible
prayer, thanking Heaven for our safe arrival, begging for good weather,
no illness or accidents, plenty of fish, and strong sailing winds.

And then, unexpectedly--no one knew why exactly--he ended up with an
abrupt request that nothing from the kingdom of darkness should be
allowed to afflict our peace, and no evil thing come near to disturb us
in the night-time.

And while he uttered these last surprising words, so strangely unlike